Alison's Week 1 Stories

From Monster to Myth Story:
Addiction to Nessi

Not many people of Scotland living on the lake of lochness believe me when I tell them I have seen ol’ Nessi. Most folks believe I am just some silly, frail old man suffering from a delusion that could only be explained by a life of solitude. In fact, the only believers are the mythologists and mystified tourists that get a high off of the legends like Bigfoot and Sasquatch.
Nessi is no such myth. Unfortunately I am the only one who really understands her pain and loneliness, so I am the lucky man to experience a relationship with her. She comes to me by night, when the fog gets thick and quiet over the water, and the air smells like a storm is coming. Tonight smelled as though the squalls were going to be unforgiving. I take a bottle of finest booze my budget will support and step out onto the front porch. The alcohol steams in my clutch pleading me for a sip, but I wait for Nessie. I walk out to my dock that threatens to break with every weight bearing step and click of the cane. I have been meaning to get that fixed, but I sort of like the ominous undertone it sends to a depressed and tired 98 year old man.
I usually wait out for a while. Not too long I would say, she comes around about the time that the cold starts to seep through even the warmest of Scotland sweaters, and my toes start to loose feeling. I know she can smell the sweet tobacco from my pipe but she knows I am coming before I even light up . Before I step out the door, I know she is coming by an unforgiving rumble in my stomach area. My heart starts to hurt in the way that lovers do after being separated for an extended period of time.
She swims up with swift precision. My core shakes from the vibrations her heavy breathing sends through the water. Her great girth doesn’t impress me as much as maybe a tourist would enjoy, but her demeanor is much more intense. She has a calming quality that seems to seep out and spill over any surrounding area. I love the way her warmth trickles down my body, filling me with assured companionship. With her I forget all the pain a man is weighed down with when he is in his later years. All the death of loved ones, broken hearts turning into broken spirits. I unscrewed the bottle in my hand while I drink her in, enjoying the comfort and conversation like two old friends. The feeling of my arse on the stool is beginning to tingle, but I don’t mind because any feeling is good when you are my age.
We are sorta both mythological creatures. I am the old man who has survived all my kids and grandkids without lung cancer or any of that mumbo jumbo those American doctors are telling the world. Though people say ol’Nessi is a myth, she becomes more real to me with every gulp of sweet burning whiskey.
Nessi offers her back for a joy ride by rolling slightly and a look, and without hesitation I climb on. We descend into the deep waters of the lochness, mermaids with golden hair sing with love and I wave, politely flashing my gummy grin. (It had been a while since a beautiful woman paid the slightest bit of attention so you can imagine my excitement.) I hugged Nessi’s trunk and felt her steady heart beating with dependable persistence. My ability to breathe underwater didn’t surprise me as much as the sheer beauty of what lied beneath the surface of this lake I had believed to once know well. After 98 years I was at last on an adventure, and together we slipped silently and peacefully together into the beautiful unknown.
They say the lochness monster is a legend, and I would have to agree because she was not a monster but my friend. They say I was an alcoholic, but I always just used the drink as an anesthetic to old man pain. They say I died that night of alcohol poisoning, but I say I was finally living again.












Extended Metaphor Story:
Swine Domination
Larry hated driving in LA ever since his accident on January 5, 2007. It was an average Monday in the southern California heat; a combination of steam from angry traffic and climate produced smog that hovered between the sun and LA people. Running late to the office meant coffee stains on the dashboard and a bitten piece of toast loosely wrapped in a napkin. Larry was especially late today, and decided to drive fast in his little ford pinto circa 1983. He prayed to the traffic gods somewhere between the 110 and the 10, but it wasn’t long before he hit traffic. On the radio, NPR was doing a story on global warming and energy consumption. As he absent-mindedly listened, car idling, heat growing, Larry began to loathe the overpopulation of Southern California.
He didn’t want to move here. Larry always considered himself a city guy but a modest one, someone who fit more with Seattle, San Francisco, or maybe some other quieter city then New York or LA. Larry grew up in Beloit Wisconsin, a block of a town with a name that sounded like a coin dropping into a toilet bowl. It took him a long time to gain independence and move to college, but he excelled in mathematics and became a hot ticket in the job market after graduation. As it always seemed to turn out, Larry was offered an amazing job in the sunny metropolis and he couldn’t refuse, despite the location.
Larry was a road piglet. He usually nosed his way through traffic, letting others in and driving with utmost caution. Unfortunately this type of driving, coupled with late starts meant his apathy on the road was turning into constant tardiness at work. Last week was his second warning, so on January 5th, while listening to a man talk about public transportation funding, Larry decided he had had it.
The air began to smell a bit like bacon and exhaust under the hot morning sun. After what seemed like an eternity, traffics flow morphed from a jam to a steady flow of cars. A black hummer began to push cars around, weaving in and out clumsily cutting cars off and claiming territory, but it seemed to be working. In the time it took Larry to move 5 feet, the hummer had moved about 15 all the while devouring gas as if global warming was some myth scientists made up to get funding. Larry could see his exit in the distance and began to attack, weaving in and out of cars like a racecar driver (well in his mind that’s how it felt). The excitement of the change doused him like a cold shower, he was awake and ready to push the pedal to the metal as far as his little pinto would go. At 77 mph the car began to tremor, its wheels and transmission were not prepared for the power and ego that had suddenly overcome its driver. Larry squealed with excitement, he was finally allowed into the trough and the food tasted so good. It was hard to know what exactly the taste was, but maybe a little road revenge mixed with gasoline and testosterone. As he approached the exit his exhilaration had reached new peaks, the back of his hands began to sweat and his heart was pounding without restraint. Visions of elevating up the executive ladder began to flash in front of his eyes. This is it, he thought, I will make it on time.
All of a sudden the black Hummer swiftly pulled into his lane, claiming superiority and blocking all independence of Larry’s little pinto. This was the end of the road for Larry and his road hog fantasy. The time that Larry had slammed on the breaks and met with his ultimate fate seemed to defy physics. In reality it took about 5 seconds to collide with the black-brick, but he had all this time to think. He realized that being a road hog was not in his nature; maybe even a piglet was not for him. Biking would be a much safer sport and better for his cardiovascular system then the temporary thrill of cutting a person off. Larry was once the passive driver that fattened the road hog, but he plumped a bit since. The Hummer would always be an overweight hog. It was built for the alpha male with personality complexes, supporting a heavy ego with its granite shell and titanium grille. Hogs were pushers, shoving others around and never late to work. The hummer probably didn’t even notice the pinto speeding into it, until it was too late.
Larry was now condemned to life on wheels. The amputee who once had a glimpse into the world of a road hog, no longer had even the porcine resemblance.